Well, well, well. (a gemini ai short story, fan fiction based on JP Martin's Uncle series)
A Chronicle of Early Wickedness
It is a little-known fact that Naughty Ninety was not born ninety. It merely took him a very long time to achieve the level of disagreeable crustiness required to join the Badfort crowd.
As a child, he was known as Nasty Nine. He was a small, sour-faced boy who wore a bowler hat that was too large for him and boots that squeaked with a sound like a mouse in distress. Even then, he had a fondness for lurking behind hedges and making rude noises at passing beetles.
He lived in a small, damp cottage on the outskirts of Homeward, the immense and magnificent skyscraper-castle owned by the benevolent but occasionally overwhelming elephant, Uncle.
Nasty Nine hated Homeward. He hated the way the sun always seemed to shine on its golden towers while it rained on his cabbage patch. He hated the Liftman, who was always singing opera, and he particularly hated the One-Armed Badger, who was far too efficient at guarding things.
But mostly, he hated being merely "Nasty." It wasn't enough. He wanted to be Naughty. Truly, deeply, historically Naughty.
One Tuesday, a day remarkable only for its grayness and a slight smell of boiled onions in the air, Nasty Nine was standing by the road, practicing his scowl. He had been working on it for three hours and his face was beginning to ache, but he was dedicated to his craft.
Suddenly, a great noise arose. Parp-parp! Honk-honk!
It was Uncle. The great elephant was driving his Purple Steam-Powered Tricycle down the road, looking immense and charitable in his purple dressing gown. Beside him sat the Old Monkey, looking worried, and behind them trailed a cart full of sticky buns for the orphanage.
"Good morning, my little man!" boomed Uncle, waving his trunk. "Have a bun!"
A sticky bun flew through the air and landed with a splat on Nasty Nine’s bowler hat.
Uncle chuckled, a sound like boulders rolling down a hill, and drove on.
Nasty Nine peeled the bun off his hat. It was cherry. He detested cherry.
"Well, well, well," he muttered. It was the first time he had said it with real feeling. It felt right. It felt ominous. It felt like a catchphrase in the making.
He threw the bun at a passing squirrel, missed, and hit a signpost instead. The signpost fell over.
"Bravo!" said a voice from the ditch.
Nasty Nine looked down. Peering out from the mud was a lean, ragged figure wearing a top hat that had clearly seen better centuries. It was Beaver Hateman.
"I saw that," said Hateman, climbing out of the ditch and shaking a dead frog out of his coat pocket. "Excellent trajectory. Poor aim, but the spirit was there. You hate him too, don't you?"
"He gave me a cherry bun," spat Nasty Nine. "I wanted currant."
"Typical," sneered Hateman. "Typical tyranny of the rich. Look at him, driving his tricycle while we walk in the mud. I am founding a society. A club. A gathering of like-minded individuals dedicated to the downfall of that pompous pachyderm."
"What is it called?" asked Nine.
"Badfort," said Hateman grandly, ignoring the fact that he was currently standing in a puddle. "We have a fortress. Well, it’s a shed, really, but it’s very drafty and full of rusty nails. It has atmosphere."
Nasty Nine looked at the retreating form of Uncle's tricycle. He looked at the sticky bun on the ground. He looked at Beaver Hateman, whose eyes gleamed with malice and the promise of treacle-based traps.
"I'm in," said Nine. "But I need a weapon."
Hateman reached into a sack and pulled out a large, heavy, wooden club. It was knotted and gnarly, and it looked like it had been used to stir concrete.
"The Bludgeon of Badness," said Hateman. "It’s yours. For a small fee. Or a turnip."
Nine handed over a turnip he had been keeping in his pocket for an emergency. He took the club. He swung it. It made a satisfying whoosh sound. He felt a sudden surge of age and wickedness. His back hunched. His voice cracked. He felt years of naughtiness descend upon him all at once.
"I am no longer Nasty Nine," he cackled, brandishing the club at the empty air. "I feel... older. Wickeder. I feel..."
"Ninety?" suggested Hateman. "It sounds more imposing. People respect a elderly hooligan."
"Naughty Ninety," the new recruit whispered. He tapped the club against his palm. He looked at the shining towers of Homeward.
"Well, well, well," said Naughty Ninety. "We shall see about those sticky buns."
And the two of them walked off toward the dilapidated glory of Badfort, plotting to dig a hole in the road and cover it with leaves, which is the highest form of strategy known to their kind.
